


Hello

by Heavenlea6292



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 02:08:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5146391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavenlea6292/pseuds/Heavenlea6292
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Hello from the other side</em>
  <br/>
  <em>I must've called a thousand times....</em>
</p><p>Sam goes to college and stops answering. But that doesn't stop Dean from trying- and it doesn't stop Sam from listening. </p><p>(originally a one-shot, then I realized I have no self control.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hello from the Outside (Dean)

_Don’t call me back._  
_Don’t call me again._  
_You can’t have your fuckin cake and eat it too, Sam. You fuckin ran away, so stay away._  
(the sigh of smoke being exhaled)  
_I have enough ghosts chasin my ass._  
(Coughing, the sound of traffic in the background)  
_I don’t fuckin care why you called. I don’t care that you didn’t even-_  
(a boot hitting a garbage can)  
_Not even a fuckin message. Not even an ‘I’m sorry’. Well fuck you._  
_Don’t call me back._  
_Don’t call me again._  
_Fuck you. Hope it was worth it._

* * *

  
(indistinct bar chatter)  
_Where the fuck are you?_  
_Why the fuck aren’t you here, huh? What does fuckin California have that you couldn’t find with me, huh?_  
(pool balls clattering, loud laughter)  
_I fuckin raised you._  
_I was always there._  
_And you just fuckin left me. You left me._  
_That’s just fuckin fine, Sammy. I don’t need you._  
(a hand slapping on a wooden table)  
_Why the fuck don’t you answer me, huh?_  
_You too afraid of facin me? Can’t take what you did?_  
(beer gurgling, a swallow)  
_That’s fine. That’s just fuckin fine._  
_Don’t need you._  
_Didn’t need you to call on my birthday either._  
_Doesn’t matter, does it? Just another fuckin year._  
_Six months. Six months and you haven’t said a fuckin word._  
_So where the fuck are you?_

* * *

  
(loud music blaring)  
_Hey. It’s me._  
_Happy birthday._  
_I’d send you a card, but you probably wouldn’t open it._  
_Probably throw it in the trash._  
_Probably will just delete this too._  
(a hissing gulp, the scratch and twang of a zippo opening)  
_Just like you deleted me. You don’t need me to wish ya a happy one. You got friends now probably for that. That’s good, I guess._  
_Now you really don’t need me ._  
_Guess you never did. Not after you turned like, 8._  
(a laugh that sounds more like a sob)  
_Always self-reliant little shit. Never wanted my help. Always had to do it your fuckin self._  
(the burble of a bong, a deep inhale)  
_You ever think…_  
(a sputtering cough)  
_Fuck._  
_You remember your fourth birthday? I remember it._  
(another burble, another inhale, another sputtering cough)  
_I stole that fuckin book…that book, fuck, what was it? It had a fuckin palm tree on it._  
_Chicka Chicka, Boom Boom. You fuckin loved that book._  
(a shot glass clattering against wood)  
_Chicka Chicka , Boom Boom. Will there be enough room?_  
(the whump of a body flopping down on a bed)  
_Never enough room. Not anymore._  
_No room for me anymore._  
_Shit._  
_That ain’t…_  
_Fuck._  
_Forget it._  
_Happy birthday, Sammy._

* * *

  
(low rumble of an engine, a radio being turned down)  
_Hey. It’s me._  
_Drivin past the Palo Alto exit right now. Been a year, Sammy. A whole year._  
(a window rolling down, traffic and wind blaring)  
_I don’t think…have we ever gone a whole year without talkin before? I can’t think of a time._  
_Can’t think of a time that I spent a whole year without you._  
(a horn shrieking as it whizzes by)  
_I’m doin fine._  
_Not that you asked._  
(a short snort)  
_Didn’t mean that. Not the way it sounded._  
_Doin a hunt up in Bodega Bay._  
_Had to stop myself from turnin off on that exit, but I remembered I’m not supposed to know where you live._  
(a soft laugh)  
_It’s nice. I saw the outside. Very Americana._  
_Sorry your brother is a creepy stalker._  
_Been wonderin what you been doin. How your classes are goin._  
_If you found a girl. Maybe a boy._  
_Hell, even a friend._  
_Always could make friends, you just never wanted to._  
(a raspy chuckle)  
_Always told me there wasn’t a point. Said we never stayed long enough for it to matter._  
_I…_  
(a deep breath)  
_I sometimes hope you haven’t. Y’know. Made any friends._  
_Like maybe you didn’t think you were gonna stay._  
_Like maybe you were gonna come back._  
_It’s been a year._  
_If you ain’t come back yet, I don’t know why I bother hopin you will._  
_A year is a long time. Long ass time._  
_‘Specially for people like us._  
(the clicking of a turn signal)  
_How the hell you got this much room on your voicemail? Don’t you get any calls?_  
_Maybe you let me have it all to myself._  
_Probably not, but I can hope, right?_  
_Just wanted to say…_  
_I don’t know._  
_Maybe you could call me._

* * *

  
(the rustle of jean against the mic)  
_I swear, Dad, I didn’t…._  
(a familiar angry man’s voice, raised but indistinct)  
_It was just a few phonecalls…I swear, I didn’t see him!_  
(shattering glass, a yelp, more yelling)  
_I just miss him!_  
_I…_  
_I can’t just forget about him! I’m trying-_  
_I know-_  
_He didn’t! He left because of you!_  
(a clatter, a thud, a fist meeting flesh, a wince)  
_I’m sorry. I’m sorry._  
_No, you’re right._  
_I’m sorry._  
_I’m sorry._  
(Another slam, another whimper)  
_I won’t! I promise, I won’t do it again!_  
_Da-_

* * *

 

 _Hey._  
_It’s me._  
_You got rid of your old phone…I guess that should’ve been the hint._  
_Never been smart enough to take a hint._  
(a drunken stumble, the sound of vomit hitting pavement)  
_Shit._  
(spit hitting the ground, a gag, a hand rubbing against a mouth)  
_I’m…_  
_I’m so fucking drunk. Holy shit Sammy, I’m so fuckin drunk. Have to be drunk. Can’t be sober. Not right now._  
(a heavy thump, a man sitting against pavement, a sigh)  
_I miss you so fucking much. Where are you? Where did you go?_  
_I need you. Fucking hell, I need you. Can’t do this._  
_Can’t do this without you._  
_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fucking shit._  
(A desperate sob, muffled by leather)  
_I’m so fucking sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Sammy._  
_I just want you back, I fucking want you back so bad._  
_Just wanna hear your voice._  
_Please._  
_Even if you say you hate me._  
_Even if you tell me you fucking hate me._  
_Need to hear your voice._  
(a frustrated grunt, a fist pounding against a knee)  
_So sorry. So fuckin sorry._  
_Are you happy? I want that. I want you to be happy._  
_I’m so alone._  
_So alone without you, Sammy._  
_Hurts._  
_It fucking hurts._  
(soft crying, a desperate sniffle)  
_Please._  
_Please, Sammy._  
_I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry._  
_Please._  
_Just answer me…just this once._

* * *

  
_You called._  
(a shuddering inhale, on the verge of tears)  
_I saw it…I know you know I saw it._  
_Five whole seconds._  
_Heard you. Heard your voice. Heard her callin your name. Heard you tellin her you’d be right there._  
_She pretty? She treat you good?_  
_Hope she does. You deserve that, baby boy._  
(the crack of a beer opening, the glug of it being drained quickly, a stifled belch)  
_Thanks for callin me on my birthday._  
_You didn’t say anything, but it means…_  
(a sniffle)  
_Thanks, Sammy._  
_Thanks for not forgettin me._  
_That’s all I wanted._

* * *

  
_Hey._  
_It’s me…again._  
_Happy birthday._  
(the clatter of shopping carts, the clang of tin cans being dropped into a wire basket)  
_Shit. You’re getting old, kid._  
_So am I, I guess._  
(the sound of shuffling, the thud of cans rolling, the beep of a check out)  
_Your girl celebrate your birthday? Hope she does. If she don’t, you won’t. Always been like that._  
_Never really understood it._  
_Shit._  
(indistinct chatter, money exchanged, the woosh of automatic doors opening)  
_Saw a cake in there. Made me think of all your birthdays. Livin on supermarket cake for a week._  
_Have no idea how we didn’t get diabetes._  
_You remember that one we got on sale, had pink flowers all over it? Man, you were pissed._  
_Remember you pickin them off, makin a pile of them on your plate._  
_Then I said something. Probably something stupid._  
_And then you started pitching them at me and I pitched them at you…_  
(a small chuckle)  
_Your mouth tasted like buttercream._  
_I always remember that. How sweet you tasted._  
_You probably hate me for that now._  
_Probably shouldn’t talk about it._  
(a trunk slamming)  
_Happy birthday, baby boy._

* * *

  
_He left me._  
_He fucking left me, Sammy._  
_Woke up to him sneakin out the door. Didn’t even look back. Didn’t even tell me why._  
_Just left._  
(a bitter snort)  
_You tried to tell me. You were right._  
_Always were._  
_And I fucking shit all over you._  
_I treated you like shit for telling me the truth._  
_I ain’t gonna call you anymore._  
_Ain’t gonna darken your doorstep._  
_Shoulda made things right._  
_Shoulda stood with ya._  
_Shoulda, woulda, coulda._  
_Ain’t ever gonna stop wanting you, Sammy._  
_Ain’t ever gonna stop needin ya._  
_But I ain’t gonna call. Not anymore._  
_You heard what you needed to hear._  
(a sigh, a hiss, a shot glass hitting wood)  
_Always gonna be here._  
_Just gonna give you what you wanted._

* * *

  
**You have one new voicemail**  
**3:47 A.M.**

_That’s never what I wanted, Dean._


	2. Hello From The Other Side (Sam)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was originally intended as a oneshot. But someone brought up the idea of Sam's POV, and since I was already thinking about it, I couldn't resist.

**You Have One New Voicemail**   
**2:23 A.M.**

He stares at his phone, unsure of what to say, to think, fighting the stinging in his eyes as everyone around him laughs and shoves past him. Like he’s invisible. Like he didn’t just get his heart broken again.

_Don’t call me back._   
_Don’t call me again._

He wants to scream, wants to slam his phone off the perfect pavement, wants to slam himself off the perfect pavement. He couldn’t speak. When his shaking fingers punched in that number, he couldn’t find his voice, couldn’t find the words. But even if he could, “I’m sorry” certainly wouldn’t have been among them. There would be other words. Words that he screamed at the mirror in that bus station mirror the morning after, his fist slamming against it over and over again.

_Why did you let him take you away from me?_   
_What happened to forever?_   
_Why didn’t you stand up for me?_   
_Why did you break my heart?_

He picks at the scabs on his knuckles, his teeth gritted. He needs something that hurts worse than the feeling in his chest. He watches the scab peel away, pulling at his skin, red blood dripping down his hand.  
It doesn’t help. Not really.  
He wants to call. Wants to scream. Wants to cry. Wants to beg, run back to him.  
But he doesn’t.

* * *

 

**You Have One New Voicemail**   
**11:16 P.M.**

He knows the number. He knows he’s gonna cry, and he won’t do it in front of anyone. He never cries in front of anyone. He always goes to the library, to a secluded corner and he thinks it’s ironic that the safest place he can find has a bright glowing “Exit” sign over it.

_I was always there._   
_And you just fuckin left me. You left me._

He wants to scream at his phone, to shake it like he wants to shake his brother. This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. This wasn’t what they agreed on.

_I wasn’t leaving you! We were supposed to leave together! You broke your promise!_

It stung. It burned. He wanted to call him on his birthday, God, he wanted to. But he knew that he wouldn’t answer. He’d just be stuttering platitudes to a machine, because he couldn’t imagine the words inside him being recorded for posterity.  
Memories of kisses and touches under motel sheets, pressed against exhaust stained brick walls of truck stops, the taste of sweat and gun oil and dirt on their skin and it not mattering. Promises, whispers of escape.

_You promised me forever. But you took it back. What does California have that you don’t? Nothing.  
That’s the whole fucking point. You were supposed to come.   
You are the only thing California can’t give me._   
_I spend every moment thinking about you. Dreaming of what you promised. Wanting you._   
_Six months._

Six fucking months of feeling like he was slowly dying, like he was breaking into a thousand tiny pieces, only to tape himself back together every morning and smile for everyone around.  
He can’t delete the message.   
Can’t delete his voice. Can’t delete his anger.  
It joins the first as the only two messages on his voicemail.

* * *

 

**You Have A New Voicemail**   
**12:01 A.M.**

It’s silent. Dead silent. His roommate is gone, out partying or in a study group, won’t be back. He doesn’t trust himself to listen to this message with him there. He’s curled up under the thin sheets of his bed, a shirt that doesn’t belong to him folded between his head and the pillow, the edge of a Led Zeppelin logo peeking out from under his cheek.  
It still smells like him.

_Probably will just delete this too._   
_Just like you deleted me._

He swallows the sob, turning his face into the shirt, letting it soak the tears from his eyes like it had so many times before, when his strong chest was wearing it, not the yielding, suffocating pillow.

_Now you really don’t need me ._   
_Guess you never did. Not after you turned like, 8._

God, he fucking needed him. He always needed him. But he couldn’t… he couldn’t give in, run back. He couldn’t even call, because he knew the moment he did, that’s what he would be doing. The minute he heard his voice on the other end, knew that he could hear him, he’d be gone and Stanford would be nothing but a memory. He couldn’t do that.

Some naive part of him hoped that if he didn’t answer, if he just stayed strong, that maybe he’d come out of his classes one day and the Impala would be sitting there, and he would be leaning against it, just like when he was a kid. That naive part of him hoped that he’d come for him, like he always did.

_Chicka Chicka , Boom Boom. Will there be enough room?_   
_Never enough room. Not anymore._   
_No room for me anymore._

God, not enough room? No, there was so much room. More room than he could imagine. He’d been empty since the moment that he watched him drive away from the bus depot, since he had to still his legs from running after him, screaming apologies and begging him to just come with him, to just go with the plan.

He still can’t delete his voice.

* * *

 

**You Have One New Voicemail**   
**2:17 P.M.**

He feels like he can’t breathe. He was so close, fuck, so close.

_Drivin past the Palo Alto exit right now._

He was driving past just an hour or so ago.  
So close.

_It’s nice. I saw the outside. Very Americana._

He was outside his apartment. He was in Palo Alto once.  
It's a good thing no one he knows has a car, or he might’ve begged them to lend it to him, just for the afternoon. Just so he could see him. Just so he could feel him, smell him.

_A year is a long time. Long ass time._   
_‘Specially for people like us._

One whole year away from the person who had been his whole world, the person he loved most, the person he needed most. Jessica picked up the picture of his and his brother once, taken outside of one of the many cabins they’d called home. She asked who he was, and Sam could feel the blood draining from his face, could feel his stomach twisting, and he snatched it from her like she would hurt it, hugging it to his chest.

_My brother._

She never asked again. He knew it wasn’t fair, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want to share him. Didn’t want any more hands on them. Too many already. Ones that tore them apart.

He goes back to the apartment, and she’s still at work. He finds that picture. He closes the bathroom door and locks it, turns on the fan. He lays in the bathtub fully dressed, and he listens to that message over and over, staring at that picture, remembering before everything was torn apart.

_How the hell you got this much room on your voicemail? Don’t you get any calls? Maybe you let me have it all to myself._

That’s exactly what he does. Always makes sure he has enough room, enough time to speak, so he can hear his voice over and over and over, even if the words destroy him.

Four messages. Four recordings of his voice.

* * *

 

**You Have One New Voicemail**   
**1:11 A.M.**

He isn’t supposed to hear this. He isn’t supposed to hear that this is still happening, the only difference is that he isn’t there to physically feel it too.

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry._   
_No, you’re right._

He can’t stop the cry that tears from his throat at that sound, that sickening sound, at the sound of his brother in pain. He can hear Jessica opening the front door, the clatter of her keys on the counter as his brother lets out a whimper of pain, a message that he never should’ve gotten, his chest so tight he feels like he can barely breathe.

_I won’t! I promise, I won’t do it again!_   
_Da-_

And then it’s over, and Sam can’t stop the tears rolling down his face, because this just goes to prove- he may have an acid tongue, but he still loves him. Still fights for him. And is still being hurt for it.

He opens the door and she has her hands on his wet cheeks and he flinches away, because he doesn’t want her hands, not right now.

The next day, he deactivates his phone and gets a new one. He won’t stop calling, and he knows that it’ll kill them both, but he has to cut him off.   
He can’t let him keep doing this. He can’t get another accidental message like that without breaking.

* * *

 

**You Have One New Voicemail**   
**12:55 A.M.**

_You got rid of your old phone…I guess that should’ve been the hint._   
_Never been smart enough to take a hint._

He wants to scream. He wants to pound his fists into everything, into himself. He didn’t want him to think he did it to get rid of him. He did it to protect him.

_I miss you so fucking much. Where are you? Where did you go? I need you. Fucking hell, I need you. Can’t do this._

This one isn’t like the others, and he can’t still his body, can't stifle his emotions, can't hide it. He’s kicking the cabinets, his arm swipes everything off of his desk, and he doesn’t care that anyone passing by can probably hear him crying like a two year old, sobbing and hiccupping.

_I’m so fucking sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Sammy._   
_I just want you back, I fucking want you back so bad._

Glasses shattering, heavy textbooks being hurled against walls, drawers being ripped off their tracks, silverware clattering against linoleum. God, fucking god damn it, he just wants to steal a car and find him, grab him, shake him, kiss him. Promise him that he forgives him. That it’ll be okay.  
But it won’t. Not as long as he’s there with _him_.

_Are you happy? I want that. I want you to be happy._   
_I’m so alone._   
_So alone without you, Sammy._   
_Hurts._   
_It fucking hurts._

He collapses against the fridge, his head bouncing against the heavy metal, kicking his legs at nothing like a child having a tantrum. It fucking hurt, god, it hurt hearing him like this, not being able to make it better. He wasn’t happy, never fucking happy. Not without him.

_Please._   
_Please, Sammy._   
_I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry._   
_Please._   
_Just answer me…just this once._

He looks at his phone, debating with himself. Should he call? Can he manage it without crying, begging for him to just leave, just come to him? What will that do to Jessica?  
He doesn’t care.  
He knows there’s a good chance that if he makes this call, he’ll answer. He’ll have to speak right to him. He’ll have to face him, and for the first time in months, the idea doesn’t make him sick with fear.  
Familiar numbers.  
Ringing.

_Dean. Leave your nightmare after the beep._

How can he? There aren’t enough words, enough minutes, enough of anything to explain his nightmare. How many times he woke up in a cold sweat, how many times he almost broke when he felt Jessica’s warmth next to him and in a half-asleep daze and he could almost believe it was him, only to realize it was her? How could he explain how his heart leapt in his chest every time he heard the rumble of a classic car, how sometimes he had to stop himself from finding the nearest dive bar and kissing anyone who wore a leather jacket and played pool, out of desperation to feel him, even if it was just a cheap, poor replacement?

_I…_

His voice is waterlogged, raspy from his crying. She calls out his name, concern laced in her voice. She’s found the mess.

_I’ll be right there._

He hangs up the phone and breaks down again, hugging himself hard, wishing his arms were around him.

He doesn’t delete it.   
His voicemail always belonged to him.   
Just like his heart.

* * *

 

**You Have One New Voicemail**   
**12:59 P.M.**

_You called._

Of course he did. He heard him crying, heard him drinking himself sick, heard him say the words that broke him and lifted him at the same time. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t say the words he wanted, but he couldn’t refuse that plea.

_Thanks for not forgettin me._

He wants to call him back, to scream at him that he never forgot, not even when he wanted to. He isn’t able to. He can’t. He is his other half…how can he?

_That’s all I wanted._

He knows, that’s not all he wants. And he wishes he could give him what he wants, what he wants too.

But the reality sets in.

And he can’t do anything but press his face into a shirt that doesn’t smell like him anymore and listen to his voice again.  
And again.  
And again.

* * *

 

**You Have One New Voicemail**   
**4:34 P.M.**

Another birthday. Another voicemail.

_Your girl celebrate your birthday? Hope she does. If she don’t, you won’t. Always been like that._   
_Never really understood it._

Jessica makes him celebrate, makes him blow out candles and have drinks with their scant friends, and he hates it. He hates making a big deal out of his birthday, because most days he wishes he’d never been born. Why would he want to celebrate the day he wishes never happened?  
He doesn’t eat the cake.   
He can’t. Not without thinking of him.

_Your mouth tasted like buttercream. I always remember that. How sweet you tasted._

If he wasn’t ready to bawl before that, he is now. He remembered that birthday, his 15th. New Mexico, a trailer in the woods without air conditioning and the fact that both of them were in their underwear because it was too fucking hot for anything more. The way he’d licked the sticky icing from his skin, the way their hips pressed together.

_You probably hate me for that now._   
_Probably shouldn’t talk about it._

He knew he was supposed to hate him for it. Enough psych courses had taught him that- he was supposed to blame him, to think he was some sort of monster that took advantage and stole something from him, but that just wasn’t true.  
He never took. He gave.

No, they weren’t supposed to talk about it. They never did. Not after he caught them once, his brother’s hands wandering and lingering a little too long after checking him for injuries, fingers a little too close to his pelvis. They never talked about it. It had to be a secret.  
How could the best thing in his life be so wrong that he could never talk about it?

Another birthday. Another voicemail.

Another despairing look from her, not understanding what her boyfriend was doing in the bathroom, trying to hide the sound of his sobs with the fan.

* * *

**You have one new voicemail**   
**2:25 A.M.**

He hears the heartbreak in his brother’s voice, the abandonment. His heart is shattering again for his strong big brother, but he’s almost giddy.  
He hates _him_ for hurting him. But he’s so glad _he_ left him. This is what he’s been holding out for, waiting so long for.

He picks up the phone, his fingers shaking as he dials numbers he’s only dialed twice in the past couple years.  
He doesn’t answer, but that’s okay.  
He can’t find all the words, but that’s okay.  
He only needs to manage six little words.

_That’s never what I wanted, Dean._

And that's all he needs to say.


End file.
